What Lives On
by PurpleYin
Summary: Magical realism AU (pictures form like tattoos on people's bodies when emotional events occur in their lives) When they'd claimed he'd be as good as new they hadn't realised it would always be true.


**Spoilers:** Up to 4x17 for character facts/mentions.

**A/N:** Magical realism AU. Inspired by the concept in the Sherlock BBC fic "The Best Picture of the Human Soul" by swissmarg.

Basic idea is pictures form like tattoos on people's bodies when emotional events occur in their lives – it's utterly normal to have these and highly unusual not to. Making for, in this scenario, Lincoln Lee angst over his regenerated self.

* * *

His skin was as soft as a newborns. As blank too. For some reason whatever the nanites had done this time to heal the deep seated damage from the blast meant it would always be so, no spontaneous dermal pigmentation for him anymore they said. A medical curiosity to them - he was Lincoln Lee, a man whose damage to undo rose them to the cusp of their ability, and he had come back from near death unpredictably changed. He felt sick at the thought. No one had any control over what images appeared on them but he'd considered his generally public artwork to show-off, a map of where he'd been and how he'd felt. A masterpiece of his life, wiped clean, as bad as a gaping hole in his chest.

The only thing his flesh would mark him as now was emotionally stunted; strangers eyeing him up on the streets as a possible psychopath because they couldn't see his heart on his sleeve or anywhere else for that matter. Stigma he could shrug off. The loss of a massive part of his body, not so much. Sure, it could've been worse, wasn't a limb gone. Day to day he could function just fine and dandy thank you Ma'am, but a whole dimension of normality was a total no go zone forever more – didn't exactly convince him the whole experience was nothing, it only appeared this way because it didn't flourish on his skin. In their world that grew ever stranger he liked to cling to what they got to keep and a comfort had been stripped from him just like that. He was like new, squeaky clean. Like nothing ever happened, nothing at all and never would for him in anyone else's eyes. When they bury him someday it will be without a hint of anything on him, just a body cold and empty, reaching a destination after a forgotten journey.

He missed every mark, even the ones he'd claimed to hate like the cutesy bicycle on his knee from when he'd learned to ride a bike after so many cuts and scrapes to the joint. He'd never sought to cover them up – except one or two he kept particularly private - they were his, and he took ownership of his life, his fate. So what if he had a trail across his chest leading from his cherished childhood playground, the woods of Teaneck, to what looked like a gloopy splodge of Philadelphia cheese? Moving had been hard as a kid, the changes more obvious and upfront in their eruptions upon him.

And the hole in the ground surrounded by green grass (that got longer each year) underneath it anyone could understand, if not glean that it was a grave for his Mom – a memorial to her now as lost to him as she was, refuelling his grief.

He'd been amused a patch of golden curls had developed on his palm when he'd left home, an ever-present reminder of how he always wanted a hand in taking care of Lara, their family dog he'd missed profusely in college. Girls always found that one pretty sweet when they asked, no matter that the image darkened as she aged, like an omen from his subconscious reminding at least him that she wouldn't last much longer. She'd had a good run though, dying in her sleep one evening over the Thanksgiving weekend whilst he was by her side. To his surprise, the form of her on him had stayed preserved past her death – not covered over or changed in any way. A fond touchstone constantly nearby of what they'd had growing up together, companions through so much over the years, a true friend he'd needed then. He still reaches for it instinctually when times are tough – his fingers can't feel the difference, but he knows it's gone, the reassurance it gave zapped into melancholy each instant he is reminded of the fact.

When he'd joined Fringe he'd secretly been unsure he belonged, braving it with bluster and letting the work sweep him up like a vortex. When he'd finally felt proud of what he was doing – and not just them, the unit, the idea of the job but the difference he made with **his** choice saving three strangers, three citizens, three people not that unlike him – the division symbol appeared clear as day in the V of his neck, on display no matter what time of day if he wore the right clothing. A sign in his mind that protecting people from the harshness of their world couldn't be turned off, he was ready to go any time any place, it was all he cared about ultimately, a vocation he'd come home to here in New York. He covered it up with high neck t-shirts despite the exuberant feeling it gave him, because it was purely his badge of honor, the only thing everyone else need see was the real one hanging from his belt clip. At least for that he still has the proof in his position and the many people saved, each with their own marks made even where his are missing.

Of course when his job did sweep him into a vortex, he got pulled out by the punk-ass kid Olivia, the newbie who didn't understand the gravity of the situation, literally. She got a good shouting down from his hospital bed as they'd stitched up his side, but he'd had a smile on his lips shining through the anger as he did and he'd grasped her tight into a grateful bear-hug at the end, adding a wince at forgetting his injury that had elicited a gorgeous laugh from her in response. They'd asked him to make a speech at that presentation of her commendation for dumb as fuck heroics in the face of not knowing any better and amongst the banter about it being all hype for the new girl he'd agreed anyway - addling together something professional enough to spout off on the podium, with a few one-liners slipped in, of course suitably toned down from his usual humor due to the bosses in the house at it. The whole time he'd felt euphoric and oddly wishing what they were presenting to her was not the cold metal copy but the version of her medal that sat on top of his heart like it was pinned to _his _chest.

After that incident the crazy of the job had tended not to get to him, little marks had turned up sometimes, ones he had a hard time interpreting - except the set of gills that was their teams running joke for him coming from almost drowning not once, twice but three times. Those were a different case from earlier in his days, small and easy to accept as tales from beyond the edge of normality, twice as good as battle scars for picking up dates. First port of call had always been to introduce the fresh ones to Liv though, when appropriate, and a couple of times where the placement hadn't been, the boundaries of physicality tested a twinge, but then they already were by his cavalier actions; he'd been full of bad form when it came to that. Every new one was an exciting discovery, casually inviting the intimacy implicit in sharing what wasn't inherently on display, her fingers tracing over them reverently with a curiosity he loved to encourage.

What had flourished slowly and surely was the canvas around Liv's medal. Veins stretched out from it, like an infection, meandering into tendrils that curled like red vines into fine petals. For years he couldn't tell what it would be, a work in progress he shied away, eternally undeveloped. Eventually it had enough of a shape for him to see, a red outline of a large headed flower, not yet fully drawn but showing hints of white and yellow fill. He'd had no clue which type it was until he had a good search for it - Chrysanthemum - though he wasn't sure it really mattered since flowers had absolutely no meaning to him, but not all symbolism was conscious. He'd quizzed his stepmom, who was curious about it (not that he'd admitted to having a flower sprawled across _him, _not without knowing why) and she'd said he must've recognized it from the exhibit of Japan they went to when he was a teenager, about the time she'd been playing at bonding with him as Dad's girlfriend moving into replacement wife territory. Despite that connection blatant for her, he didn't remember it more than vaguely, especially didn't remember what he must've thought or read about the plant. The position, curled around that medal, had already told him more than any wordy explanation could express.

He'd often worried Liv might spy that, or someone else like Charlie. It made him extra careful in the locker rooms or during hospital visits, any time his shirt was off – his guarded pictorial heart that could give too much away. It was bad enough Charlie already suspected he had a thing for Liv, made out of the blue quips about seeing a tinge of green around his eyes whenever he caught him looking at her and Frank.

Now it's completely gone and he aches for it to return more than all the rest of the history on his skin. There's no fear she'll discover it now, only the sadness he can never prove it to her if the future ever turns his way. He only has his memories left, a life to build a new solely on the pictures in his mind, and the words ever lingering on his tongue, will simply have to do.


End file.
